


We've Got Work in the Morning (But it's Nearly 5AM)

by hoodislame (xieagle)



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angel!Michael, Boys In Love, Coffee Shops, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Fluff, Guardian Angels, Homesickness, Hurt Calum, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, New York City, Smoking, Supernatural Elements, Supportive Michael, Sweet Michael, and michael is an angel, and they fall in love, ashton and luke are here wow, basically calum is really angsty, basically that's all there is to it, but i'm going to make it longer than i should, but still??, fair warning, i guess??, kind of, like there's literally just angels, lots of malum pretty much, luke and calum both work in a coffee shop, sad!calum, the lashton is minor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:52:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6339364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xieagle/pseuds/hoodislame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which Calum is on a self-destructive path to nowhere and takes help only in the form of a phantom visitor in the middle of the night, and in which Michael is an angel with a mission to save a boy who is constantly in the darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inhibited

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic is basically stemmed from a whim, so updates will probably slow while I still work it out, to be honest.  
> I was listening to 5AM by Amber Run while writing, so I'm sure you can find the inspiration, haha. 
> 
> I'm only not yet sure of everything this will contain, as it's a project that I will be writing on the fly. So? Enjoy?
> 
> Oh, and this initial chapter is basically setting the scene and whatnot, the next chapters from here on out will be longer, I can assure you of that much.

One thing Calum has been self-aware of since he was no more than a naïve ex-high school senior who thought he was going to become ruler of the world – or, at least, no one of less caliber – was that he is constantly surrounded by an air of darkness that he has made no move to ever correct on his own.

The windows of his apartment overlook an empty lot which lacks color completely, save for the tar-black and slate-gray pigments of the unfinished break between buildings of fifteen stories. When he goes to the local coffee shop on the corner that advertises that it’s the city’s ‘Greatest Cup o’ Joe,’ he has never had the second thought to add milk to the black beverage. His wardrobe is certainly no different, nor in the smoke that comes from his mouth when he is own for a smoke.

More often than not, his thoughts drift on and on an equally shadowed path when he’s alone, sitting at the window that overlooks that damned lot, an ashtray just below his nose and a cigarette positioned between either his lips or his fingers. All the while, he twirls a silver chain of a necklace between the thumb and index finger of his free hand – perhaps the single item he still has in his position that truthfully reminds him of home, when his world wasn’t entirely black and his hopes were light.

No star dares to shine in the city, he reminds himself, and the feelings of disconnect only deepens, though the silver chain is as dainty as the day his sister had presented it to him that one Christmas morning.

Ten stories from the ground, thousands of miles from home, and with only five cigarettes left in the opened package that sits atop his knee, he can still remember the way he had felt initially; how he had questioned why Mali would get him such a “girly-gift” and how his mother had tapped his head, reminding him that he was fortunate to have a sister who cared so much about him to ever bother getting him a present. At the time, of course he had turned his nose up, half-assed an apology, and ultimately re-boxed the necklace with all intent to forget but not forgive.

Years would go by, and the same boy would find himself unboxing his belongings that he had brought from Sydney, eyes glassy while he pulled out a few family pictures. The same box would fall from the masses as an unexpected guest – he doesn’t remember finding it when he had been taking his childhood from his old home. Ever since, it’s rare when he takes the memory from around his neck.

It has become a welcome weight at his collar without his consent. Simple and light, the metal was cut in the shape of a singular angel wing. A few scratches mar the back of the art, perhaps where words were once present, though Calum cannot remember a time that he had ever made out something legible there; only ever scratches that he’s given up hope of reading. He could ask his sister, he supposes, to see if she remembers, but the idea is spotty – calling his sister would require calling home first to ask him mother for Mali’s number, and he’d rather have a mystery than an awkward conversation, let alone two or more.

So the shadow in the windowsill sits and smokes and twirls the chain of the necklace and thinks. He thinks and smokes and observes the city life below him, wishing that one day he could feel some sort of connection but only coming empty-handed and out of luck.

And, well, out of cigarettes by the time the sun begins to threaten the moon and the nearest digital clocks reads 5:00 AM in the form of too-bright, red pixels. Dark bags have become constant baggage for his eyes, constant reminders of nights spent without sleep. His final cigarette butt glows a faint red in the ashtray still when he leans his head back and rubs at his face, a silent yawn daring the slip between his lips.

The alarm on his phone is due to go off in a matter of hours, he knows all too well, but sleep seems like nothing more than a distant fantasy no matter how physically drained he is. His body might be on the verge of collapse, balanced precariously on the precipice of pushing up and shutting down, but his mind chugs on with a pace that never slows, never stops, which is perhaps the most damning part of it all.

Because the boy that smokes himself silly and watches like an owl in the night from his perch is also the boy who seems himself as nothing more than the most vulnerable being in the entire city. A sharp jawline can only hide soft cheeks for so long; a contradiction that continues for everything that Calum is and everything that Calum knows.

Unable to muster the strength to pull himself from his seat to go into the next room for his bed, it’s all Calum can do to shut his eyes and tip his head back against the faux leather for a moment of relief.

Sleep doesn’t come immediately, but in gentle waves in such intense feeling that the boy feels like he’s back home, when things were good. There’s a hand in his hair, soothing the tangles out of his curls and a thumb on his forehead, smoothing away the crinkles of worry from his skin for however short a period of time.

With how real it all seems in his limbo between sleep and awareness, he has no energy to question when the air shifts, as if by a soft breeze or a new pattern of breathing. Nor does he do more than crack his aching eyes open when a pair of lips bump against the shell of his ear and whisper comforts with a promise for a better dawn, a safe place to rest his head, and eternal safety. Still, even in his bleary state, he knows that no one is there, that there are no hands nor lips to soothe away his troubles and worries. The necklace that sits obediently against his collarbones taps him lightly through the thin material of his black shirt and the final ember of his cigarette goes out while he pretends otherwise, as he does with each subsequent night.

Sometimes he swears it’s real, when his eyelids are too heavy to bare and he needs whatever power comes to him each night, no matter the odd hour, to lull him to sleep like a mother he needs at his side. Though he’s technically an adult, Calum knows there’s no way he can keep his head above water on his own, and the gentle support from the ghost at his side is the only help he has ever felt he could welcome under the city lights. So, really, he’s take what he can get – hallucination or not.


	2. Confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys enjoy <3

In comparison to Calum’s nights, Calum’s days are fast-paced – quick enough to rival the usual bombardment of ideas against the weakening interior of his skull. Peace from other humans is but only a fleeting wish thought of only in moments when customers aren’t lined up to the counter and through the doorway, each patron looking for their usual fix of coffee for their own grueling shifts.

Men and women, old and young all alike in their need for a boost make their way up to the counter in succession. Orders are shouted over the usual chatter of the shop towards the pair of workers who juggle cups and pour beverages for their paycheck. 

Really, it’s a dance of sorts that’s perfected only from months of working together on the hellish morning shifts that keep the pair of boys on their feet with their customers kept content. 

“Watch your back, Cal, two hot vanilla mochas passing through-“

“Did you fill the chocolate shavings this morning?”

“No – ma’am I’ll be with you in a second – I think Ashley did before-“

“- Well why the fuck? You usually do it, you do it right, better than –“

“- I know, but I was late –“

“He said he’ll be there in a minute, please, miss – Luke, you’re never late.”

All the while, the pair of young workers work their way around the space behind the counter, filling cups and exchanging money with drinks to the hands that reached out. The conversation was fractured, as to be expected, with words rushed out and overlapping one another. All the same, the two were familiar enough that it had become just as regular as the old man who always sat at the corner table with a book; possibly the only customer Calum had ever seen walk into the shop without an air of student’s panic or worker’s urgency.

“I know; I was at Ashton’s last night. He was still asleep when I was getting ready so I made him breakfast,” the blonde explained while he finished topping a large cup with an excess of whipped cream, only to have it snatched from his hand within seconds by the same girl who had ordered it. 

Brown eyes rolled in sheer amusement, though the dark-skinned boy stifled his laugh for his friend’s sake. “And making eggs equates to you running late to work?” he scoffed, nudging Luke with his shoulder when he next passed him by. 

“Not necessarily, no,” Luke huffed out, missing Calum entirely when he went to return the friendly bump. Without looking, he could feel a pair of chocolate orbs trained in the side of his head when he punched several of the keys of the register and took money from the next hand that offered it. “But it does when you burn the eggs by accident and drop them on the floor.”

Calum couldn’t have helped the laugh that escaped him if he tried, nearly dropping a latte from the sudden tremble in his shoulders. “Well, Casanova,” he started mockingly, flashing a smile at a woman that approached him for her coffee. “I hope you didn’t wake your little boyfriend.” The red tint to Luke’s cheeks was all he needed to tell that it was certainly not the case, prompting another laugh to cause his smile to widen and his eyes to crinkle. “Then you’d better be going over there tonight to apologize.”

Another laugh erupts from behind the counter when Luke swats at his companion, once again missing the tawny boy but sending an iced coffee in waiting to the floor, which will ultimately have to be cleaned up when the time is found after the morning rush. 

\--

Table 12 is notorious for usually remaining filled for most of the mornings and afternoons by an elderly man who lives in the apartment complex down on Twentieth Street. Nearly everyone who works in the coffee shop have had at least one conversation with the likable old man with an affinity for honey in his green tea.

Often times, Calum finds himself wandering over to his table to deliver a fresh cup of his preferred tea and share in a friendly exchange after the bustle of the morning, usually by the time ten in the morning rolls around. Every time, the man – Mr. Parks, as he introduced himself to Calum one rainy morning – would smile up at the boy and offer him a chair at his table for as long as he could spare it. 

It might not be the most professional, sitting with a customer, but neither was leaving an old man to sit alone after he offered company for however brief a time.  
While everyone in the shop loves Mr. Parks, it’s hardly a secret that the man favors the boy with dark hair and vice versa. If left to their own devices, they would chat about everything from the weather, to the music playing through the window, and to the elder’s wife at home who never quite understood why her husband would sit in a noisy coffee shop for hours. 

Therefore, it was easy to note Calum’s shift in mood when his usual friend wasn’t at Table 12, nestled in the corner with his familiar scarf around his neck and a book at attention on the table top. 

“Hey Luke,” Calum says softly to his friend, gathering the younger’s attention from where he stands at the counter, wiping at it halfheartedly with a worn rag. The shop has since been cleared of a frenzy, making way for the calmer regulars who filtered through the door on their own time, smiling at the pair working behind the counter before taking their usual spots like actors in a rehearsed show. “What time is it?” he asks when blue eyes were turned in his direction. 

There is a lingering pause while Luke seeks his phone out of his pocket for counsel. “It’s almost ten-thirty,” he answers definitively before stowing the device away once more. “Why? You have somewhere you need to be?”

Calum shakes his head absently, one of his hands trailing down to his pants, his thumb hooking in the belt-loop of his jeans. “No, it’s just, Mr. Parks is usually here by now,” he replies, his voice hollow with confusion. 

“Hey – I’m sure it’s nothing, yeah?” Luke hums, noticing the odd state of his friend and coworker. “Maybe he burned some eggs too,” he adds in an attempt to make Calum crack a smile, though to no avail. 

Carding his fingers through his hair, Calum nods curtly, though his stomach dropped dramatically. “I guess,” he relented, dropping his gaze from the corner table after a final, lingering pause. When he looks up again, his eyes are met with a pair of blue ones, lit with a certain concern. “Maybe Mrs. Parks convinced him to stay home for once,” he tries, forcing a tight smile to match. He decides that the genuine smile Luke wears and the soft laugh that leaves his parted lips are worth it.

\--

Days press on as usual, Calum supposes, with the lack of the man who drinks green tea. Each day sends the boy’s hopes up, only to drop as the morning eases into afternoon and Parks never pokes his head through the door of the shop. For whatever reason, it leaves Calum feeling more wrecked than usual. 

He can only guess that he should feel fortunate when Friday rolls around, meaning that the next two days on the calendar are his own and he can finally find solace within the walls of his apartment. That is, if he ever could find some form of peace.

His feet drag over the top of each step on his way up the flights of stairs, and in his state he’s too tired to so much as question why he hadn’t deemed the elevator a superior option to the stairwell. His limbs are noodle-like with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, his knees weak, and feet as heavy as blocks of lead. Even his head is hard to lift, and it takes him longer than it should to pull his keys from his pocket. 

The metal of the keys jingle together while his hand twitches slightly, his grip failing him and his way inside slips to the floor. 

Really, it’s not a big deal – it’s just a few feet down and he could pick them back up along with his dignity. But, nothing in Calum’s life is ever that simple and stress free, so all he can muster himself to do is lean his head against his door, the metal numbers digging uncomfortably into his forehead. 

He can’t remember the last time he cried, if he’s being honest, so the sting of salty tears pricking at his eyes is unnerving, but does nothing to coax him. His breathing is equally labored, coming out in short pants, and yet he can only think of how embarrassing it might be if one of his neighbors was to come by and see him, completely broken simply because he dropped his keys after a long day of work. 

He closes his eyes tightly, tries to pull himself together. It’s a hard feat, and he blocks out the world entirely in a way he’s trained himself to do for years. That, though, is apparently just another in a string of mistakes, as he misses the sound of footsteps from down the hallway and the sudden mutterings of another life. 

In fact, Calum looks up only when he hears something hit the ground and an unfamiliar voice let out a whined curse. “Fuck,” the voice huffs again, and Calum tilts his head against the door to make out a definitely masculine form with pale skin and brightly colored hair just within his line of sight. 

The newcomer continues mumbling to himself as he picks his phone up from the ground, seeming to notice the broken boy on his way up when brown meets green and suddenly Calum doesn’t feel like absolute trash anymore. “Uh – hey – are you okay?” he asks, prompting Calum to lamely nod against the wood of his own door. 

“Yeah, just dropped my keys.” It comes out dumbly, Calum knows, but the truth is the truth and he can’t bring himself to lie to a stranger as beautiful as the one before him. He figures the truth might not be so bad when the man laughs in a way that might just be the best music that Calum has ever heard, as poetic and shitty that sounds. 

“Do you need some help then, mate?” The boy is very close very suddenly, but Calum is still glued to the exterior of his apartment and can’t bring himself to move from lack of will to go on. 

Therefore, he lets out his own laugh, following his previous nod with a shake of his head instead. “I’ll live, I think. Just tired, and bending down is a lot of work.”

Before he can add anything further, the stranger waves his hand dismissively, stooping down and picking up the lost keys without another word. He holds silence while he holds Calum’s eyes, no exchange necessary when he places a hand on the small of Calum’s back to bring him away from the door, to which the latter complies without argument. “Here,” he murmurs gently at last, taking the keys himself and unlocking the door. “All opened for you, babe. Get some rest, yeah?”

In hindsight, Calum probably shouldn’t let the same man do all of this for him, as a stranger is a stranger, but there is something too familiar and comforting for him to reject when a hand brushes the hair from his forehead, touch so light it might be a stray breeze. Instead, he offers acceptance, unable to help himself but lean slightly into the same hand when it strays faintly over his cheek. “I’m Calum.”

Another of those beautiful laughs escapes bright red lips, and Calum closes his eyes. “I know. I’m Michael, your new neighbor. I’ll see you around, yeah?” No argument or questions are offered before Calum finds himself inside his apartment, the strange boy’s words echoing inside his head. 

In passing, he wonders how the boy he had just met might know his name, but a cigarette by the window calls his name and he’s too weak to reject that either. As usual he spends his night overlooking the vacant lot with embers burning away in his ashtray. 

It’s only when a soft voice coaxes him to sleep around five in the morning that he lets himself be lull into a dreamland by phantom brushes of unreal fingertips against his scalp and equally imaginative lips pressing a kiss to each of his weighed eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone should talk malum to me on tumblr: hoodislame.tumblr.com


	3. Invaded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all like this one<3

When Calum wakes up the next morning, it's to the sound of someone singing too loudly, audible through paper-thin walls, and the noises of what could only be pots and pan hitting against one another. A groan escapes parted lips, and the first thing the tawny boys wonders is what he has done in his life to be woken up in such a cruel manner. His apartment complex was never advertised as a swell place, with police sirens heard ringing out in the dead of night and the occasional gunshot or "back-firing car engine," as he had tricked himself to believe. He had the neighbors a floor above who just loved to let everyone else on the planet know how happy they were together to boot, but this time Calum decided that he was going to eviscerate whoever thought it wise to throw cooking vessels - at least, that's certainly what it sounded like. 

Sparing only so much as a glance at his phone to find the time - it was nearing eight in the morning - Calum pushed himself up from his trusty chair and away from his usual window to trudge across the carpet and out of his front door.

It was a poorly thought plan, he realized only once he was in front of his neighbor's door with his fist poised to knock. He had only met the guy the night before when he was on the verge of giving up all sanity because he had dropped his keys, and now he was standing, bare-foot, in a pair of boxers and a shirt that looked like a child had become too eager with the scissors and had nothing better to do than nearly shred his shirt. 

Fleetingly, he considers turning away - that it's not too late just yet - but his hand moves on its own accord, seemingly determined to shut down this singing, attractive, perhaps amateur-chef, and it is too late. Almost immediately, the singing stops and true silence follows after one last crash of what is assumed to be metal on metal when two pans meet.

The boy who stands in from of him is just as bright as the night before, his hair mussed slightly but in a way that might just be styled and actually not out of place, and he smiles widely at the sight of Calum, his teeth glistening while on display, like he couldn't be happier to see his neighbor. "Well, long time no see, huh?" he asked, even his voice shining along with his pale skin, and Calum wants nothing more than to hate him all the more, but just can't. "Can I help you, Cal?"

It's not the nickname that strikes the darker boy, but the words that proceed it. Instead of a rhetorical question that it probably would be with any other speaker, with Michael it come off as nothing more than genuine, as if he really wants to help, in every meaning of the word. For a beat of time, it disorients Calum, catching him off-guard and trying to remember why he's even there in the first, standing like an idiot with his toes cold from standing on freezing tile. 

"I - uh - were you trying to cook something?" he asks lamely in return, missing his mark by a mile of what he had really come to say, but losing his previous fire entirely when he looks into those mesmerizing green eyes. 

As expected, Michael lets out an easy laugh, nodding once and leaning casually against his door frame. "I am, actually. You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the entire day, or something like that." His voice is slow and soft, drawing Calum only further into confusion, because he _knows_ he's heard it somewhere that isn't from Michael, but he just can't put his finger on it; it frustrates him more than anything else. "Do you want some? My eggs aren't the best, but rumor is that you make coffee to die for, and my mom had the greatest pancake recipe." Michael adds, as if in an after-thought, his pierced eyebrow quirked in question, and he rights himself properly on two feet, leaning forward just a bit closer to Calum that the latter misses it almost entirely. The young man still wears the same smile, and it's concluded that any other expression might just be impossible for him.

Quickly, Calum shakes his head, feeling his eyes widen in alarm because suddenly the whole neighborly-thing with Michael is too quick, too soon, and he feels trapped, either like he needs a cigarette or just needs to get out and find air. He's never interacted with any of his neighbors, not ready for anything that might come. When he had first moved in, the woman and her daughter from across the hall had made him a welcome-cake from the box, and when he had answered the door to see them standing there, beaming, he thought he was going to _die_ because it was too intimate in a way he just wasn't comfortable with - now it was happening again. 

Before Michael can react, Calum takes a step back from him, startled like a wounded animal, and needing to leave. "Sorry, no, I can't," he fumbles, allowing himself to get closer to his own apartment, to safety. "You just made a lot of noise and it woke me up - I really should go," he rushes out before turning as soon as the smile does, indeed, replace itself with a frown over red lips. 

Calum knows Michael says something, maybe even reaches out to him and asks him to _wait_ but he doesn't stop, doesn't wait, doesn't turn back to face him, just flees to his apartment and shuts the door a bit too forcibly, his chest fluttering with uneven breaths. 

Images flash through his mind of his family. Christmas morning when he was three years old and his dad presented him with a neatly wrapped box; five years later when he was seven and a family of four was a family of three; fighting with his mother and sister over the little things, because they all fought, always, and they didn't know any other ways to communicate; when he was sixteen and Mali left in the dead of the night, leaving only a single note that promised that she wouldn't come back; when his mother took her anger out on him by leaving bruises that he would have to cover up; and finally his own flight from home because he just couldn't take it anymore and needed to get away - only then did he understand his sister again and started wearing the necklace she had given him when they were different and happy. 

Absently, his fingers found the metal necklace and held tightly to it like a lifeline. As if on cue, he feels himself relax when familiar, ghostly fingers coax his eyes open and lead him to his underused bedroom. For once, his bed looks inviting, and he allows himself to fall into its embrace with his imagination constructing his guide, making him feel safe and letting the tension and worry melt from his shoulders in a way that his smoke can't. 

A word of thanks is whispered brokenly into the still-new pillow case while the same phantom hand moves through his hair, brushing his scalp and making him pliant. Sleep is soon to follow, and for once no nightmare haunts him, and thankfully no crashing pans or singing break the silence, as if suddenly his neighbor is aware of what he needs. For that, he supposes that he's thankful too.


	4. Misunderstood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love you all so much, hope you enjoy<3  
> as usual, i've proofread nothing so all mistakes are my own

After that, things seem to go rather well. At least, in a relative standing, that is. Nights are still as sleepless as they come and when Monday rolls back around, the coffee shop is met with a line out the door. Days are spent filling cups with hot drinks in accordance with orders barked across the counter and teasing Luke about his sex-life to see the lanky blonde duck his head to hide a blush and fond smiles at the thought of his sunshine-y boyfriend. There's still no occupant at the corner table, but Calum trains himself quickly not to look in that direction, and he supposes that maybe things are okay; that both he and Mr. Parks are just fine. Nights are spent watching the city roar on until dawn with the only source of heat coming from the end of his cigarette and the blanket that had appeared on his usual chair one night. 

That was really the only thing that was particularly off, from what Calum noticed. Small details in his apartment changed here and there in ways that meant nothing, but also meant everything because he had no recollection of putting anything differently. For example, a soft throw blanket that he never remembered having to begin with came into his radar on Tuesday night after a shift ran long. His apartment was feeling just a bit cooler than usual, the air nipping softly at the skin of his nose and cheeks when he had settled in his usual perch for the night. It had been folded neatly and laid over the right armrest, like it had been waiting for him the entire time. The very idea of it was nothing short of confusing, because it made no sense for someone to break into his apartment and give him a blanket. That is, not unless Robin Hood had come to him because of similar names, but Calum's hopes were never that high to begin with. After pondering it an wrapping it around himself, the tawny boy concluded that he must have had it stored somewhere and taken it out that morning in anticipation for the cool night. 

There were other little details as well, which had all been written off as nothing more than forgetfulness. Like how his place seemed a little neater each time he came home, too exhausted to clean the dishes he _knew_ he had neglected earlier. The sink, though, was spotless and dry, and Calum had furrowed his eyebrows, brought a cigarette to his lips, and tried to dismiss the nagging in his mind that told him that something was going on. 

The thing was that nothing was _wrong_. All the small happenings were just that: small happenings. If anything, they were charitable works of mercy by a higher being Calum hadn't believed in since his family was still a family. Certainly a robber wouldn't clean his dishes, give him a blanket, or fold his laundry as he had found another night. So maybe Calum was simply too tired these days to remember the things he did, or maybe there was a heaven and a king of heaven after all. Not that he believed in it, but if religious royalty was going to stop by now and then to do chores and give him gifts, well, he'd consider the thought. 

His neighbor stayed out of his way, for the most part, their paths crossing only here or there when they went to collect their mail or take out their trash. At first Michael had tried to be a good neighbor, Calum suspected, inviting him over for dinner and so on, even proposing a Friday night out at a bar if Calum wasn't feeling a night in. All such offers had been rejected none-too-eloquently with Calum shaking his head and mumbling out an apology he knew he didn't actually mean with an excuse that wasn't true. After the third attempt, Michael had just sighed, pausing in the lobby with a single letter in hand. Calum had been able to feel green eyes heating the back of his head when he had turned away to face the inevitable climb up. When his neck grew unbearably hot, he had turned and caught the slightest glimpse of the other's face, twisted in a perplexed and thoughtful expression. But Michael looked down and Calum looked forward and the moment was over. 

\--

It's a Thursday when Calum and Luke are leaning against the counter, sipping quietly on hot chocolate the former had made just after the morning rush. Afternoon sunlight streams through the fleshly cleaned window panes, and Calum thinks that it's the entire reason that he stays with the job he has in the city he hates. It's because of his best friend who has been more like a family to him than anyone else, and because of the sunlight that always dusts the pale counter, keeping him warm and content. Sure, the pay sucks more than Calum can describe, and he'd probably be happier in a less urbanized area, but it's the little things that make him stay. It's teasing Luke while they dance around one another in order to comply with demanding customers and drinking lattes or hot chocolate when the rush slows to nothing.

It's Luke that breaks Calum out of his thoughts with a gentle nudge of his shoulder, making dark eyebrows to raise slightly in question over the lid of his paper cup. "Cal, is that him?"

Before Calum can ask his friend who _him_ is, the man himself makes him way through the door, and once again Calum's life seems to fit back into its usual routine once more. For the man standing there is old, with wrinkles to show such age but a smile that fills the room when he takes a dramatic pause in a middle of the shop and inhales deeply. "I must say, the hospital doesn't have that same smell, not at all." Even the man's voice sounds old with age, but it's familiar and one that has been missed dearly. 

"Mr. Parks," Calum pipes up, setting down his drink in favor of waving his friend over. The man immediately searches the counter with pale green eyes and his smile grows when his faded gaze lands on Calum.

A worn hand reaches out as soon as they are in reach, and it's only natural when Calum meets it halfway to shake, for once a genuine smile of his own lighting his features. "Mr. Hood," he echoes back, "it's good to see you, boy. I do hope you didn't miss me too much."

It's enough to produce a laugh, and Calum shakes his head slightly as his hand is released so that he can set himself to work. "Of course I did. Everyone misses their favorite customer and I missed you. It's not the same around here."

"But you're so young, boy, don't worry over me. You have a life to live." And as much as Calum would like to shake his head and say that, really, he doesn't, he opts to nod his head and smile again while making the beloved tea with honey. "I'm going to sit, would you mind bringing it over to me?"

A few minutes later and Mr. Parks takes a sip of his tea while gesturing to the chair across from him for Calum to take. "Sit, sit. You've worked hard enough for now." Over the man's shoulder, Calum can see Luke wink at him while wiping the counter for the fourth time that morning. 

Briefly, Calum wonders if it'd would be impolite to ask why the table was vacant for so long - why the old man across from him had been absent without warning. Before he can make up his mind, though, the rough voice fills the space between them instead. "You know, my ticker isn't working like it used to." It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and when Calum opens his mouth to speak, a hand raises and cuts him off. "I told you, don't worry about me, you are young. I thought it was my time two weeks ago, but I got lucky. I thought you should know."

The thought had crossed his mind, that Mr. Parks had died and either no one from the shop knew or no one wanted to tell the barista who was especially fond of the man. Either way, he had brushed it off each time, because he knew that hearing it would be too real. "I don't understand," Calum managed after a moment, sounding and feeling weak. 

"I know my time is running out, I can't live forever. I like you, Cal. I like the way you listen and think," he says softly, pausing long enough to indulgence in another drink of tea. It doesn't make sense, Calum thinks. The man before him has bright eyes and a smile, yet says that he is dying. He has also never called him by a nickname before, and he never that they knew each other well enough through chitchat to say that they liked the way they each _thought._ Like the blanket, it just didn't add up. "I have a son in Florida, and we're going to live with him. He, though, doesn't have passion for much. I'd like you to come over to my house, I have a few boxes of books and things that you might like."

The entire idea of it has the boy confused, gaping because he doesn't understand what's going on. Before he can question it, though, it feels like time itself has changed. He's aware of not much other than the cup of tea slid in his direction that had an address written across it in a pen Calum never remembers seeing. Mr. Parks gets up with a wink that mirrored Luke's earlier one and leaves without another word before time seems to even out again. For a moment, it's all Calum can do to stare at the cup dumbly and wonder what in the world had just happened.


	5. Poisonous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my loves !! after too long of a hiatus i am finally back. hope to do justice with this chapter here<3

Calum is never the greatest at making decisions for himself, especially when it comes to confusing matters. Especially when it comes to choice of whether or not he should go to an old man's house for a box of what was likely old knickknacks that any person Calum's age just wouldn't understand nor appreciate. Which, really, is probably all the more cemented as true considering it certainly seemed like the man's own son wasn't interested.

However, the latter point was something to ponder and make him second guess. If his son didn't want it, then it couldn't be anything personal like photo albums from way back when, nor could it be overly antique that would be worth a fine wad of cash. It is by that logic and that logic alone that Calum allows himself the humor of taking a trip out of his usual rut from the coffee shop to his apartment complex. The old man was leaving him a gift that was probably lacking, but if it meant enough to him, then it was least he could do to go along with it.

The first thing Calum notices when driving down to the corner of Arrow and Aspen is that the neighborhood is greatly different from the area his apartment complex is in the middle of. Downtown is dark and reeks of smoke - not that Calum could say much on the topic of smoke, since his output seems like it could amount to too much of the lack of air quality - and trash.

The eastern side of the city, in contrast, might as well be like heaven, without the tall, confining walls of buildings to trap innocents inside and birdsong. It is surreal and refreshing in every sense, and Calum has to refrain from pinching the disorientation away, lest he look like even more of a starstruck fool in his ramshackle of a car. Everything about the area screams how too good it is for the tawny boy, but his awe is so great that he can't retain the idea of turning around and going back to his dingy armchair on the corner of Nowhere Good and Downhill Spiral for more than a fleeting moment.

It's only an indignant honk from a car behind him that Calum realizes that he is barely pushing twenty in a forty stretch of road. Needing to shake his head clear before he is expected to see Mr. Parks and present himself as more than the mystified shadow he feels like he is, he clicks on his blinker and pulls his car to the curb. Ignoring the sleek black car that glides past is hard when he stepped out and hears his own form of transport creak, but he is used to keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact.

Walking has never been something Calum resorted to when it came to trying to clear his head, but seeing as he is nearly at the Parks residence, fleeing to his apartment for a cigarette and watching the world outside of his window seems too much like defeat for his ego to get to him. So, walking it is.

The sidewalk is wet when his worn sneakers make contact, the result of a rainstorm before dawn, a cloud-covered sky, and not enough heat in the air to evaporate the leftover water. Puddles against the curb and riding into the darker pavement of he road remind him of simpler times at home when his sister had dragged him out in the middle of such a storm before their parents were up. Nostalgia fills the cracks of a memory of splashing each other with gathering rain deposits and falling water until they were both shivering and their lips were turning blue. A smile crosses his lips when he remembers the way Mali had taken him by his hand, fingers so numb that he couldn't make out exactly how tight her grip was. How she had pressed her own finger to her lips and told him to be quiet when they slipped in the back door.

Just like that, the illusion is broken when a loud voice slices the memory, just as it had back then. "Calum!" The voice of his father, scolding him and his sister for being stupid and doing dumb things, again.

"Calum!" Again, the voice cuts into his mind, and the boy steps back, feeling the scrape of a curb against the back of his heel. Confusion clears his vision of rainstorms and Mali when a hand grabs at his bicep while another arm wraps tightly around his midsection and helps reel him back.

A car whizzes by, and it was only when the memory has faded completely that he is aware of the blaring car horn, screeching of brakes, and how he had strayed off the sidewalk in his daze, nearly right into traffic. A close call, nearly an accident, had it not been for a certain someone.

The pale and tattooed arm around him is faintly familiar, and Calum can easily remember watching the same fingers pick his keys up from the floor of the apartment's hallway. "Michael?" he croaks out, feeling dizzy despite the fact that somewhere along the line Michael had pulled him back to safety and onto his ass, wrapped around his back from the way they had landed.

How his neighbor wound up to be his savior in the middle of some random street, more than halfway across the city from where they live and from where he assumed Michael worked, Calum hasn't the slightest of ideas. All he knows is that the breath against the back of his neck is shallow and frantic, as if Michael himself had nearly been hit by that car, which had since disappeared into the usual traffic for the area. "Are you okay, Cal?" he pants out after too long of a second of silence, still sounding breathless and perturbed.

It takes Calum a moment, just to assess what really had happened. He'd thought of his sister, of all people, walked off the corner of the sidewalk and into the road. Somehow and by some chance, his own overly-kind neighbor has proven to be either some sort of superhero or really good at being in the right place at the right time. Was he all right? "I think so," he answers at last, only faintly aware of the way Michael's arm seems to tighten around him, if only for a second. "Sometimes I forget to look both ways."

Judging by the ripple of breath behind him, perhaps cynical humor isn't the right way to go, but Michael is at least kind enough to let out another breathless mumble that sounds vaguely like "not funny," not that Calum can blame him at this point for any ill will after nearly getting himself killed and having possibly hurt the guy's ego by rejecting a proper breakfast, but not even that can stop his dry humor. Not in times of near-death crisis, apparently.

"What are you doing here?" It isn't the right time for small talk, and Calum knows that much despite a sudden lack of mind to mouth filter. However, his curiosity isn't completely for naught. He knows why he is there, but hasn't the slightest notion about Michael.

Without answering, the boy releases Calum completely, only to quickly hold a hand out for him. "After that, I'm getting a cup of tea. And you're coming with me, if you want to talk." He must recognize the confusion that is no doubt written across Calum's face, because he nods up the street. "There's a really good place for tea, or coffee, if you like that better. I'm not going to talk to you on the wet ground."

It's a fair enough offer, an answer from Michael and tea to settle his nerves. But, the red alarm is starting to go off in the back of his head again when he takes Michael's hand to pull himself to his feet. "I'd like to," he starts, unable to help but sigh at the expression that passes over Michael's features, because he knows it well; the look of disappointment. "I have somewhere to go, though. It's where I was headed. Maybe another time?" Even as the words come out, he knows himself too well to maintain a clean conscious. If he walks away from his neighbor now, there will never be another time, which is precisely why he hasn't let go of Michael's hand yet.

Green eyes search his face, paired with a tight smile, and for a moment Calum is assured that Michael is going to let him go. So, he's surprised when the guy shakes his head and holds out his free hand, palm up and empty. "You almost just got hit by a car. At least let me drive you wherever is so important?"

It goes again everything to trust Michael, but the look in his eyes is so steady - the calmest thing he's seen in probably his entire life. It makes him want to make a leap of faith and take a chance on someone he still considers a stranger. Conflict rages in his mind before he shakes his head once. "I can't believe I'm going to let you drive my deathtrap," he mumbles, but fishes through his pocket and produces a small ring of keys. The smile Michael wears, he decides, is almost worth the trust he's just put in a near-stranger.

**Author's Note:**

> you should probably be my pal on tumblr since I'm lonely most of the time: hoodislame.tumblr.com


End file.
